


hold me, carry me slowly

by desmondkilometers (clockworkcorvids)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Canon Divergence - Post-Assassin's Creed III, Desmond Miles Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Assassin's Creed III, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self projection, and implied - Freeform, happyish ending, no archive warnings but very heavy on the mental health talk, panic disorder, projection!, so be careful, so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25204480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcorvids/pseuds/desmondkilometers
Summary: Before the end, it had been Desmond who’d break down and Shaun who’d comfort him, because of the two of them, only one (hint: it’s not Shaun) had spent far too long losing his sanity and almost his life.After they find the key, after Desmond - against all odds - doesn’t die, it changes.
Relationships: Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	hold me, carry me slowly

**Author's Note:**

> this is self indulgent and i wrote it during an anxiety attack so it’s just chock full of projection :’)  
> i do think it helped me work through some Thoughts tho,,
> 
> pls heed the tags, but enjoy!
> 
> title from sunlight by hozier

Before the end, it had been Desmond who’d break down and Shaun who’d comfort him, because of the two of them, only one (hint: it’s not Shaun) had spent far too long losing his sanity and almost his life.

Shaun had been losing his sanity as well, just a bit, but he never had too much to begin with. And he couldn’t compare it to what Desmond had been through, anyways, and he'd needed to focus on his work above all, so he dealt with it. The anxiety, though, that’s always been a pesky little beast, creeping along like his shadow, always there, only invisible if he hides in the metaphorical dark. 

After they find the key, after Desmond - against all odds - doesn’t die, it changes. Desmond still needs all the help he can get, but Shaun lets down his walls a little bit more, and stops bottling up his own problems.

This time, Shaun is hiding in the actual dark, on the roof of the hotel he and Desmond are staying in. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s an upgrade from the motel they stayed in for the first week after they knew Desmond was going to make it. Hell, _that_ had been an upgrade from any of their accommodations in the last few months of 2012. They didn’t know where they were going to go, and they still don’t, but they do know that they’re going to stick together no matter what, and that’s clear enough that not even William tried to stop them from leaving.

There are special screws in the windowpanes specifically so that people can’t open the windows far enough to climb out, and Desmond finds the aforementioned screws neatly placed in a paper cup on the TV stand, right next to his own pocket knife and Shaun’s glasses. The window is open, but that’s not what woke him up - in fact, while the cool breeze is welcome to him, he woke up because he’d found himself slipping into a nightmare, subconsciously shifted to look for Shaun’s familiar presence, and jolted when there was nothing in the space next to him. Luckily, he had done so before the nightmare had really gripped him, so all that he’s left with is a slight residual sense of dread - in other words, nothing he’s not used to.

It’s easy to climb out onto the roof, muscles flexing in comfortingly familiar configurations as Desmond eases out the window and scales the wall. The air is cooler out here, the breeze slightly stronger, and he can smell rain on the air - whether it’s passed already, incumbent, or both, he can’t tell. He’s quiet, not concerned about getting caught. Such things are trivial in the long run, anyways. He can’t see much, either, but Shaun is easy to find, lying spread-eagled on his back, arms out at his sides and feet together as if someone has taken a snapshot of him mid-Leap of Faith. 

It’s no secret that he has, well, crippling anxiety - _There’s no light way to put it, alright?_ He takes his pills and he leaves notes around reminding himself to breathe and he takes an allotted twenty minutes to meditate every day (when he remembers, that is, which isn’t often when he gets caught up in work, but more so after the immediate threat of the apocalypse had passed).

And it’s still not enough, he’s said. Clearly.

In the hazy, dim light provided by nearby streetlights and the moon, Desmond watches Shaun open his eyes. It’s rare to see him without his glasses when he’s not in bed, as he’s both near-blind _and_ utterly meticulous, but he looks almost naked like this. Vulnerable, for sure, which isn’t new to Desmond, but this particular form of vulnerability is still rather striking even after all the times that they’ve fallen asleep together.

“Anxiety or panic?” Desmond asks, quietly, crouching near Shaun’s head but still giving him a fair breadth. 

Shaun breathes in through his mouth. Stops halfway, Breathes in and out again, faster. 

“Panic. Hyperventilating’s mostly gone, though.” He sounds almost clinical, and it hurts Desmond, it really does, but he knows it’s just how Shaun deals with it. Pick apart the tangled mess of feelings and the effects, analyze each of them one by one. Figure out what they are, so you can take them apart.

“Anything I can do?” He wants to reach out, to stroke Shaun’s hair, his jaw, run a thumb over his cheekbones - the map of which Desmond has long since memorized - but he doesn’t. He does the same thing for Shaun that Shaun does when he Bleeds or the nightmares get bad: he breaks the Creed. 

Well, it’s not breaking the Creed to ask permission in this case, not _really_ , but they’ve gotten a few good laughs out of imagining that they’re some sort of cocksure teenage rebels when all they’re doing is exercising common courtesy.

“Stay,” Shaun whispers, voice cracking a little, and warmth spreads throughout Desmond’s veins at this display of trust, despite the circumstances. 

“Can I talk?” Shaun asks. “About it. It’s about.” He pauses. Swallows. Speaks slowly. “You.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Desmond says, shifting out of his crouch and into a more comfortable cross-legged position. They might be here for a while. 

Momentum builds up, and when Shaun speaks again, the words come out fast and disjointed, a stark contrast to just a moment ago. 

“I keep thinking about how close you came to dying. So many times, especially the last time, though, and I’m so bloody glad it’s all over, for you and me and us and _everyone_ , but, you know...usually I get anxiety about the future, but this time it’s the past. I keep replaying those moments where I thought you were dead, and there’s no logic to it, _none_ , but it still hurts me anyways.”

“I wish I could give you some kind of magical fix, Shaun, same way I know you wish you could will my nightmares out of existence. But I think...you just have to remember that you’re not your anxiety. Maybe you can’t get rid of it now, maybe you never will, but you’re so much more than just that.”

“We’re more than our history, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Desmond says, and he’s already closed his mouth again by the time the words really hit him, meaningful for more reasons than one - it’s coming from Shaun, who’s a _historian_ , who’s anxious about the past, who loves a man who’s spent his entire life running from his history and that which was forced upon him, that wasn’t his own in the first place and never should have pretended to be.

Shaun sighs. “I’m gonna take a few minutes to just breathe, and then I’ll be back in, alright?”

Desmond yawns as he stands up again and climbs back over the edge of the roof. “I’ll try not to miss you too much,” he says, and Shaun’s resulting chuckle makes him already miss the other man in his arms.

Shaun is true to his word, though - as always - and Desmond doesn’t have to wait long before he hears Shaun carefully slide through the window, the pane quietly squeaking closed, a screw being put back into place.

He’s turned away from the window as he lies in the bed right now, and it’s nearly pitch black in their hotel room, so he doesn’t see Shaun slide back into bed so much as _feel_ it, a missing piece slotting back into place. Chest pressed against Desmond’s back, his heartbeat is perhaps a bit faster than it should be, but he’s breathing normally again, and Desmond can practically feel Shaun’s smile against the back of his neck.

Shaun drapes an arm over Desmond’s side, so casual yet so tender, as if this is where he’s meant to be. If Desmond’s track record is any indication, he doesn’t care much for destiny, but fate or no fate, he feels the same way. He’s glad they wound up together.

  
  
  



End file.
